


no good deed

by duixote



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Rape is not between main characters, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26310490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duixote/pseuds/duixote
Summary: He buys Atsumu on impulse really, determined to save him and get him on his merry way.But getting Atsumu to trust him is no easy task, and there’s the not-so-small matter of the secrets Atsumu’s keeping...secrets that will change everything Sakusa knows about his world.In which Sakusa is the world’s most morally uptight hitman, and there’s far more to Atsumu that meets the eye
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 67
Kudos: 283





	1. ...goes unpunished

**Author's Note:**

> no non-con between the main cast ever. the worst they do to each other is miscommunication, but there is both off screen and implied non-con and physical abuse. The sakuatsu dynamic is around recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the warnings. non-explicit rape/non-con in this chapter but not between sakusa and atsumu

Sakusa Kiyoomi knew he was not a good man. He had spent too many hours meticulously scrubbing the very last traces of blood out of the fine wrinkles and grooves of his leather gloves to delude himself into believing that he could resemble anything close to goodness. But right now, trying to politely avert his gaze from the pathetic figure slumped at the feet of the man Kiyoomi was attempting to... _negotiate_ with, Kiyoomi felt like a fucking saint.

* * *

It was a mystery in the first place why Motoya had foisted this job onto Kiyoomi. He was much more adept in the skills of pulling the rug out from under someone’s feet with naught more than a few words, where Kiyoomi would find himself awkwardly piecing together sentences and threats like a toddler with a puzzle. First theory, it was entirely possible Motoya had still wanted petty revenge for Kiyoomi stealing his mark (and thus bringing to an end Motoya's streak of successful missions). Second theory, he's delighting in knowing Kiyoomi would fumble and fluster with something so trivial as a trade negotiation. Motoya had an unfortunate mean streak. Good for keeping him alive. Bad for Kiyoomi.

***

On the flight over, he'd studied his target. He'd worked through his standard routine for a job, though this target would still leave his encounter with Kiyoomi on his own two feet, hopefully with a thoroughly broken ego. It was more than most could say. Or at least their obituaries could say. Samuel George Smith's obituary however, would have to wait until after Kiyoomi had successfully brokered an agreement for Smith's group to provide the Sakusa syndicate with the latest and greatest in weaponry. Kiyoomi snorts reading Smith's proposition. It was obvious what kind of man he was from the A4 memo. _New. Power hungry._ Over confident from a string of successes that were nothing more than good luck.

He'd be an easy mark. Flatter his ego by discussing just how much benefit Smith would gain from supplying an old, established presence like Sakusa. Convince him he'd come up with all the ideas. Smooth talk him so he doesn't realise Kiyoomi's fishing for Smith's own supplier, effectively cutting him out as the middle man and shorting him of millions of dollars. Simple stuff. 

The first day of negotiations goes smoothly. Smith seems surprised to meet the heir himself, and falls over himself to please, putting Kiyoomi in a generous penthouse. Third theory arises; Motoya knew exactly what he was doing in sending Kiyoomi, seeing exploitable weaknesses in Smith without even gazing upon the man. Kiyoomi makes a mental note to never get on his cousin's bad side. 

By the second day, Kiyoomi has Smith on the ropes. By the third day, everything goes to shit. Smith is unnaturally relaxed when Kiyoomi sets foot into the stuffy boardroom. Curse Americans and their propensity for boardrooms. Under the dull buzz of fluorescent lights anyone would think they were discussing stocks instead of the highly illegal sale of millions of dollars worth of weapons. 

The atmosphere is drenched in misery despite Smith's obnoxiously good spirits, and Kiyoomi feels a deep uneasiness that has him itching for the familiar weight of his gun. He almost jumps at the sound of the door unlatching as someone else slips into the room, head bowed and slinking almost pressed to the walls.

"I wasn't aware that anyone else would be privy to our conversation". Kiyoomi hopes that his smile appears relaxed, without any of the surprise and confusion colouring his thoughts.

"Nobody else is here, just you and me champ!" Smith says, mirroring Kiyoomi's own smile. With an impatient snap of his fingers, he compels the other man to hurry to his side and slide to his knees.

The other man is shirtless, and Kiyoomi can see the sharp jut of his hipbones and the pronounced hollow of his collarbones. His eyes are downcast, but his lashes are preternaturally long, dusting shadows above high cheekbones, marred by the ugly yellowing bruise there. Lastly, Kiyoomi forces himself to stare at the dark red leather encircling the other man’s throat, with a convenient ring attached at the front.

_Convenient for what?_

His traitorous, lusting mind supplies a detailed answer as he feels his face heat up. 

"Ah, got eyes for my baby have you?" Smith’s voice snaps Kiyoomi out of his reverie. He watches as Smith reaches down to ruffle the other man's blond hair. Kiyoomi sees the way his hands tighten in the golden strands, and hears the barely perceptible whimper slip into the bloated silence of the room.

Kiyoomi’s own hand tightens where it’s gripping into his trousers, wrinkling the pressed lines of his suit. His face is still heated, but now from guilt rather than lust. It was clear from the stiffly held lines of his body, leaning as far away as possible despite the grip that kept his head in Smith’s lap, that the other man was terrified.

Goddamn it. Motoya would kill him at best, call him a fool at worst, but it didn’t matter. The objective had changed.

“Yes I do in fact. He’s a rather pretty thing.”

Smith laughs good naturedly. Kiyoomi forces a smile in return.

“Isn’t he just so pretty? He’s my good luck charm.” Smith sighs, running his fingers through the golden tresses. “Got him when I was first starting out, and he’s been a real asset ever since. I’d give him employee of the month every month, if only for the fact that I’ve never had to pay him!” 

Smith’s laugh booms in the small room again, echoing claustrophobically. For the first time since he’d landed in the States, Kiyoomi feels like he is on the back foot. He can’t read this Smith, can’t anticipate what he’ll do next, so he may as well throw caution to the wind and trust his instincts.

“And...” Smith leers, beckoning Kiyoomi to come closer. Damned curiosity, he does, watching as Smith tugs his _lucky charm_ up by the collar and bends him over the table, wrenching his arms behind his back. “...he’s been a real help for stress relief.” 

It is the first time Kiyoomi has seen the other man’s eyes, obscured slightly as they are by the hair falling into his eyes. They are deep, golden and angry-ashamed-terrified all mixing into one even as he holds himself still while Smith runs a proprietary hand down his back and all over his body. He is glaring at Kiyoomi, meeting him in the eyes, an unspoken challenge there. Even if Kiyoomi wasn’t certain before, he was now.

“How much for him?”

Smith freezes, tensing. At least the bastard was now caught off guard.

“He’s not for sale, a man can’t give away his lucky charm like that. Personal attachments you know?”

_Quite_ personal, Kiyoomi can extrapolate from the way Smith’s now hooked two fingers into the other man’s mouth. 

“Personal attachments won’t get you very far in this world,” Kiyoomi intones, letting a hint of his frustration creep into his tone, “and it so happens I’m in the market for exactly some stress relief. Your ‘good luck charm’ seems a great deal less ah- _breakable_ than my previous property.”

He was well and truly bluffing now, should Smith decide to ask about any of his so called ‘previous property’ Kiyoomi would find himself floundering for a believable story. However, he had to make Smith believe he had only selfish purposes, that this was planned, and a show of power. Stealing away his “lucky charm” to leave him off kilter. 

“Be honest Kiyoomi ,” Smith chuckles. God he was sick of hearing this man’s laugh. “How much of a choice do I have in this?”

Kiyoomi echoes his laugh. “You’re a clever man Mr. Smith. Your choices are, I pay you say, $100,000 for him now and we finish our negotiations for our deal today. Or you die tomorrow and I take him anyway.”

Smith raises his hands in mock surrender, “Alright alright, you’ve twisted my arm.”

He tosses a small key, glinting as it flies in arc towards Kiyoomi.

"Here’s the key for the collar. I recommend not taking it off that often, it’s got a tracking chip inside it and he does love to try and make a run for it. Easier to catch him again when he’s got it on.”

Smith then slides a small silver remote across the table. “This is the shocker. Don’t put it above a 8, he passes out too easily at that. He whines mightily at a 5 or 6 but it’s all an act. Usually only a 7 or 8 will be adequate as a punishment. The lower settings you can just leave on in the background, stops misbehaviour. Just remember to turn it off before you touch him or you'll get a little zap too.”

Kiyoomi tries to retain his look of mild interest. The Sakusa Syndicate had always been careful to never get into the profession of trading people. Willing prostitutes? Sure. Those professionals who delight in pleasures of the skin. But this, the weight of the shocker is heavy in his palm. It's shaped like a simple garage remote. Small and discrete. Easy for the conscience to forget the suffering it could bring. He runs a finger over the buttons of the device, the rubber there worn by oils left by cruel fingertips.

“That’s it I think. Though I hope you’ll indulge me for this meeting and let us share. It’ll take poor baby some time to adjust.”

Kiyoomi could not think of anything he would do rather less, but still he obliges. Smith motions for the man to slide to his knees again, disappearing under the table. They discuss notions and figures as Kiyoomi pointedly ignores the wet, slick noises that interrupt the silence of the room and the way one of Smith’s hands is conspicuously under the table. He tries and fails to not imagine the hand fisted in golden hair, and feels both lust and anger pool in his gut. It sits there, the desire warring constantly with the burning red righteousness as the meeting stretches out painfully slowly.

Finally Smith groans, wiping his hand clean on a handkerchief which he tosses under the table as well. Kiyoomi breathes a sigh of relief internally. They were also close to finishing the negotiations, and while he wasn’t able to be as aggressive as he’d originally planned, the losses they’d have to take were less than he’d feared-

There is a hand pawing at his crotch, and Kiyoomi finds himself looking at a pretty face, painted with beads of cum still in his fringe and dripping onto his eyebrow. 

“Ask nicely baby. Where are your manners?” Smith hollers from across the table.

The golden man looks demurely up at Kiyoomi through his lashes, but his eyes are brimming with unshed tears and pure hatred.

“Please _sir_ ,” this is the first time Kiyoomi hears him speak, and is surprised to hear a hint of a familiar accent in the hoarse, fucked out voice. “Won’t you fuck my face?”

Blood rushes to his crotch, making his trousers uncomfortably tight. The desire in his gut swells like a rising tide, arousal clouding his judgement and whispering temptations of how he _looks so beautiful and oh so willing on his knees_. For if he was truly angry, would he not fight? Push and kick and scream at Kiyoomi, baring his teeth and threatening violence against his most intimate parts? Surely the hatred Kiyoomi saw in his eyes was just a facade... With these thoughts swirling in his mind, Kiyoomi fumbles with the zipper of his trousers. The man on his knees flinches, barely noticeable, easily mistaken for a shiver from the chill of the air conditioned room. As he leans forward in a practised movement to nuzzle at Kiyoomi's dick; Kiyoomi catches a glimpse of his eyes, no longer angry but still bright with tears, flat and lifeless. He snaps out of his lust, using one gloved hand to gently push the golden man's face away from his groin. 

“I’m not much of an exhibitionist, no matter how nicely anyone asks,” Kiyoomi snaps, ashamed at how close he came to losing control. “Send him to my room, I hope you’ll understand that I won’t be joining you for dinner tonight.”

“Hahaha, of course!” Smith says. He pulls out his cell phone, bringing it up to his ear for a call.

“Yeah, Cavello? Take Miya up to Mr. Sakusa’s room. No he’s not being lent out, we’ve come to arrange a sale. Still prepare him properly though, and take his stuff too. I’ll have him waiting outside Meeting Room 20.02. Yeah? Thanks. You’re the best Cavello.”

The man, _Miya,_ crawls out from underneath the table and rises to his feet, silently leaving the room at Smith’s implied order. Kiyoomi now notices the way he limps a little, and the unnatural way he holds himself with his wrists crossed behind his back, head hung low but walking with his shoulders set stubbornly.

Smith directs his attention back to Kiyoomi.

“Now. Where were we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda unsure if to continue in kiyoomi pov or change to atsumu pov! let me know if you'd prefer one


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a conversation goes wrong (or as well as it can with Miya Atsumu)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> made some minor changes to chapter 1, mainly some grammar and spelling that was bugging me! specific warnings for reference to non-consensual drug use, not by Sakusa, and dub-con themes (not Sakusa's fault). Sakusa is a bit of a jerk
> 
> There are mentions of anxiety attack symptoms at the end of the chapter.

By 9pm, stumbling into the elevator which would take him up to the blissful peace of his suite where food, bed and a _hot shower_ was waiting; Kiyoomi was ready to write the day off. He’d stepped into a Dali painting, he just knew it. If not for the $100,000 blow to his bank account and the botched arms deal that Motoya was going to kick his ass for, it all would’ve been a bad dream.

Alas, the stubborn persistence of memory. 

The elevator chimes softly as Kiyoomi arrives on his floor. Instead of flopping on the couch like he so desperately wanted to do, he begins his nightly ritual, changing his supple leather gloves for rubber ones. 

_Spray, wipe, repeat. Spray, wipe, repeat._

No amount of faith in the world would convince Kiyoomi that _American_ housekeeping would clean adequately. No, this kind of thing was something he could only trust himself to do. Plus, he sighs, it was a skill that had proved itself useful in the field. 

There’s no crime if all the evidence is swept away, scrubbed away or dissolved with peroxide.

By 11pm, his arms and legs feel like they weigh 10 tonnes each. He wanted nothing more than to sleep. He walks into the bedroom, fumbling for the light switch, cursing when he almost trips over the… the _person_ on his floor.

Miya is sprawled on the carpet, lying in a way that promises leg cramps and a numb shoulder in his future. In sleep, he looks peaceful, _normal_. The illusion is broken by the handcuffs around his wrists and the chain that runs from them, keeping him leashed to the bedpost. His mouth is stretched open by a gag that looks part sex toy, part torture device. He is naked but for a pair of dark briefs, sinfully tight over the swell of his ass. The implication is painfully obvious. 

Kiyoomi winces at the way the metal around Miya’s wrists has rubbed the skin there red and raw, obvious signs of a fruitless struggle. The skin around his lips is worse, splitting at the corners of his lips. Blood lazily trickles down, mixing with the involuntary drool trickling from Miya’s mouth and pooling a pink stain into Kiyoomi’s carpet. It’s a small wonder that Miya hadn’t accidentally choked on his own spit, and Kiyoomi feels brief, burning anger at how carelessly Smith and his men treat life.

Miya’s chest is rising and falling gently. Kiyoomi studies the vast expanses of the bare skin presented to him. There’s wounds on Miya’s soles that look nasty. Even scabbing over as they are, they’ll need to be washed and dressed in bandages. With the pants Miya was wearing earlier discarded, Kiyoomi can now see the bruises painted by rough fingertips on Miya’s hips and thighs. Kiyoomi feels heat rise in his cheeks at the thought of digging his own fingers into those bruises, holding those hips.

Smith’s leer and jaunty little _“have fun with him!”_ from earlier slaps Kiyoomi’s conscience. What kind of man would Kiyoomi be if he justified “rescuing” Miya just to treat him like the others? Even if confined to the privacy of his own fantasies, Kiyoomi feels ashamed.

  
Instead of wallowing in his shame, Kiyoomi studies the construction of the gag and cuffs. They seem simple enough, possibly the key Smith had given him earlier would unlock them.

He wonders if he’ll be able to untie Miya without disturbing him or if it would be worse for him to wake to a stranger’s touch on his body. 

He’d decide later.

Kiyoomi’s gaze falls onto the other intrusion in the room. On the bedside table, there is a hamper. An honest to god _hamper._ Kiyoomi shakes his head in disbelief. _Americans._

The hamper is artfully arranged, but no amount of pretty pink tissue paper could dress up the contents. A bouquet of condoms. Packets of lube. Restraints that Kiyoomi wasn’t sure were actually legal in the States. Toys that could be used to bludgeon a man to death.

If the implication wasn’t obvious enough beforehand, it really was now. 

Miya stirs behind him, and Kiyoomi is able to enjoy a brief moment of unguarded emotion on his face before he registered Kiyoomi’s presence in the room. He immediately tenses, slamming his gaze to the ground. Lethargically he raises himself off the floor, eyes still half shut as he goes slowly to his knees. Each twitch of his muscles seems calculated, abiding by nature’s laws of ‘no sudden movements’.

The silence is impressively awkward, broken only by the quiet clinks of metal on metal as Miya fidgets. 

Kiyoomi clears his throat. "So. Hello?"

Miya's still pointedly avoiding eye contact, but his fingers flutter hesitantly before giving an earnest little wave with his cuffed hands. Something painful leaps in Kiyoomi's chest, threatening to claw its way up his throat and spill out words he'd regret. 

_Cute... Miya was cute._

  
  


“Can I touch your face?” Kiyoomi winces as soon as the words tumble out, “to take that off,” he gestures towards the gag before realising that Miya’s gaze was firmly fixed somewhere between the floor and Kiyoomi’s kneecap. 

He resists the incredibly childish urge to flop down on the floor. He resists the incredibly _cruel_ urge to just ignore the other man entirely in pursuit of a shower and the bliss of sleep.

He watches Miya for a response. A twitch of a muscle, a nod or shake of his head.

Miya is as still as a statue. 

Kiyoomi clears his throat. 

“Well? Can I? I want to remove the gag.” Kiyoomi works to keep the frustration from leaking into his tone. He was just _so tired._

Miya startles a little, risking a shrewd glance up into Kiyoomi’s eyes. Whatever he sees, it’s enough to make the protective hackle of his shoulders drop a little as he nods his assent. 

Still, he flinches when Kiyoomi reaches towards him. At this distance, Kiyoomi can see the grotesque, industrial construction of the collar around Miya’s neck. He itches to remove it too, but there were appearances that needed to be kept while they were still under Smith’s voyeuristic gaze. 

There’s a lock on the gag. Kiyoomi clicks his tongue in frustration before trying the small silver key he’d received earlier. It jams. He can feel his frustration mounting, chipping away at the little empathy he’d had remaining.

He could try and cut it off, the gag doesn’t look to be that sturdy. A simple band of supple leather. 

Wandering to retrieve the knife he keeps under his pillows, Kiyoomi tuts. He should really oil the sheath, it was a little hard to draw and that wouldn’t do. At least it was definitely sharp enough to make a clean slice through the leather.

He turns around to approach Miya again, only to see him back away quickly as far as the chain would let him. Miya’s gaze is filled with terror. He’s not even trying to keep his eyes trained to the ground now, staring wildly at the weapon in Kiyoomi’s hands. His cuffed hands are raised defensively near his face, but he’s not making any sound at all. No cries or garbled attempts at pleas. Just the static of his rapid breaths and the chime of the chains rattling as his whole body twitches with poorly suppressed panic.

Kiyoomi sighs and tries to rub away his frown. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” he keeps his voice soothing. Kiyoomi toys with the idea of telling Miya that he won’t hurt him, but discards the thought. While he was good with a knife, there was no way of knowing if Miya would flinch or not and slice himself on the blade. He goes with brute honesty instead in an attempt to calm Miya down.

“Cutting that gag is the only way we can get it off,” he continues, slowly edging closer towards Miya. He keeps his movements smooth, his steps light, and the knife clearly in Miya’s field of vision.

Kiyoomi crouches in front of him. The chain running from his handcuffs to the bedpost is pulled taunt with the sheer desperation of his attempts to put more distance between himself and Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi tenses his legs in anticipation, in case he needs to pounce to pin Miya down and stop him from thrashing around too much. 

“Hold. Still.” Kiyoomi grits, hooking one finger under the leather band to pull Miya’s face closer.

The effect is instantaneous. Miya slumps, limply allowing himself to be maneuvered by Kiyoomi. Defeat is written into every line of his body, from the hung head to protective hunch of his spine. His hands are in his lap, the only part of him still moving as they tremor.

Kiyoomi can feel bile coiling, ready to fight its way up his gut. He’d _killed_ people without feeling such a blow to his conscience. He quickly tucks the knife between Miya’s cheek and the leather band and makes a swift flick of his wrist. The leather falls into two pieces, but the gag stays in Miya’s mouth. If it were Kiyoomi, he’d have spat it out as soon as he could, but instead he winces as he reaches to pluck the gag out.

It falls to the floor with a muffled thud, and Kiyoomi can’t even bring himself to care about all the new saliva and blood now soaking into the carpet.

Miya’s wincing as he shuts his jaw, gulping a few times. He seems to be coming back to himself now. 

Kiyoomi’s staring. 

Miya is glaring right back. 

His eyes have lost the glassy sheen of mindless terror now. The same wordless challenge from earlier, in the boardroom, is back Miya’s eyes instead. Kiyoomi suddenly, dearly wishes that Miya would just _talk_ to him. 

Kiyoomi is the first to look away, but he doesn’t miss the way Miya’s eyes blink rapidly in surprise.

From the amount of bloody spit soaking into his carpet, Kiyoomi realises that Miya must be thirsty as hell right now. He rises to his feet, mindlessly wandering into the adjoining kitchenette. Getting Miya to drink some water would be a good start to establishing some trust, and then maybe an honest conversation. Though Kiyoomi can’t lie to himself and say that his decision to purchase the other man earlier was fueled by anything other than impulse ( _and lust_ , whispers a traitorous part of his brain. Kiyoomi bats the thought away); depending on how long Miya had been with Smith, he could prove useful in helping salvage the otherwise shithole deal Kiyoomi found himself in.

With the glass filled, he thrusts it in front of Miya’s face, not missing the way the other man flinches at the sudden movement.

“Will you drink this?” Kiyoomi says.

“No.”

Kiyoomi almost drops the glass in surprise. _What kind of self torturing masochi-_ Another piece of his patience falls to the wayside. He’d never anticipated that owning another _person_ would be so damn irritating. Why couldn’t Miya see that Kiyoomi was trying to help?

“Just drink it Miya,” Kiyoomi grits out, “I’m not having you pass out from dehydration.”

Miya’s expression twists in anger even as he snatches the glass from Kiyoomi with his cuffed hands. Kiyoomi realises now, too late, that he’d phrased it like _an order._

  
“Didn’t think yew’d care ‘bout what made me unconscious,” Miya’s tone is spitfire and resignation, “ ‘s long as I’m knocked out, isn’t it all tha same?”

_He’s stalling. What is it about drinking some goddamn water that has him stalling?_

“I have no clue what you’re talking about. Drink the water.”

“Driiinnk the watterrr,” Miya parrots back mockingly. 

Kiyoomi’s hand itches to make contact with Miya’s face, adding another blooming bruise to his cheeks. He’s so... _so annoying_. 

“Oops.” Miya says, spilling the glass of water onto the carpet. That poor carpet had been so abused tonight. “Guess ya just gonna hafta wait.”

Kiyoomi’s frayed patience snaps. He yanks the chain connected to Miya’s cuffs, dragging the other man to his feet. Kiyoomi leans into Miya’s personal space, ignoring the uncomfortable twist of his heart as Miya’s breath stutters.

“What is your deal,” Kiyoomi spits, “It’s just water. How hard is it to just drink the fucking water? Are you stupid? Is that it? Have your wits been literally fucked out of you?” 

Miya snarls at that, gripping Kiyoomi’s shirt.

“Ya think I’m stupid? Ya really think I’d believe that it’s just water? Didn’t Smith tell ya? They’ve drugged me up good already, don’t need to try and fuck me up with ya own shit. Unless ya really want ta try. Might mix badly and kill me though. I’m just looking out for yer financial interests ya know. You wouldn’t want yer new, expensive toy breaking on the first night. Though technically not new, hope you don’t mind second hand goods. Reduce reuse recycle. Save the environment and all that.” 

Miya is babbling, words tumbling quickly out of him. Despite the cocky candour of his words, Miya’s gaze darts nervously between Kiyoomi’s face and his own hands fisted into Kiyoomi’s shirt. It is as if he’s wrestling with himself; torn between seeing for Kiyoomi’s reaction and being afraid of it.

Kiyoomi’s chest twists again with something cold and uncomfortable and terrible. The way Miya talks about himself...the casual way he sees himself as an object (as Kiyoomi’s object), is heartbreaking.  
  


“Is that what you wanted to hear? Want me ta play up the bratty act some more?”

Kiyoomi stiffens in shock. _Playing? Had Miya been acting this way because he knew it would agitate Kiyoomi? Because he thought it was what Kiyoomi wanted?_

“I won’t be able ta keep it up for much longer though, from experience that shit knocks me out in about another half an hour. I can keep giving ya reasons to punch me ‘til then.”

Miya releases Kiyoomi’s shirt, stumbling as he falls to his knees again. He looks up at Kiyoomi with a resigned, yet expectant expression. 

“You think I’m going to punch you?” Kiyoomi asks, horrified.

“Honestly I prefer a slap, if yer gonna hit me on the face. Keeps me pretty.”

“I’m not going to hit you Miya.”

Miya laughs disbelievingly, the sound of it thin and breathless with fear.

“Why not? I’ve given you a reason to now. I’ve talked back, and yer gonna punish me for it.”

He says it like it's a simple, unavoidable fact. A law of the universe that he can expect violence for trying to anticipate what he thinks are Kiyoomi’s desires.

“I’m not going to punish you by hitting you.” Kiyoomi’s voice cracks. He thinks of rows and rows of nearly arranged matchboxes. He thinks of sunflowers growing in uniform fields. He thinks of how badly he’d wanted to do exactly what Miya was accusing him of right now. Of how he’d been tempted to leave a sunflower bruise on that face. 

His hands are shaking slightly now, his thoughts are spiraling. Senseless, cruel violence. How he hated it. He tries to take several deep breaths, counting the seconds as he inhales and exhales.

“Are ya gonna punish me by fucking me instead?” Miya’s voice sounds smaller now. “It wouldn’t be a good punishment, I’m such a slut... ” he pauses as he lets the word drip like poison from his lips, “that it’d be more of a reward.”

From the flat, toneless way Miya said those words, Kiyoomi can tell he’s parroting them from someone else. Words he’d learned to repeat from how often he’d heard them, likely been forced to say them.

“Plus,” Miya continues, forcing a smile that makes the bruise on his cheek wrinkle happily, “ya can always fuck me when I’m unconscious, but hitting me is always better when I react to it.”

Kiyoomi can’t stand it anymore. He doesn’t know what to say. Every single thing he says to Miya seems to be interpreted in the worst possible way. 

The room seems too small. The bloodstains on the carpet seem too big. Kiyoomi does the only reasonable thing.

He turns and leaves.

As he’s slamming the bedroom door behind him, he hears Miya’s laugh, tinged with hysteria.

Miya calls out to him, the sound just carrying to Kiyoomi.

“Was it something I said?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a much shorter update than I'd originally planned. What's happening with Atsumu? I wonder what he's up to...
> 
> Atsumu’s wearing a modified spider gag (with slightly more sadistic sharpness) if you’re curious, but I thought it would make more sense for Sakusa to not know the name of the gag. 
> 
> College is kicking my ass at the moment, so the next update might take a while


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspection heavy short filler, and sets up some of the plot later. I wonder what's going on with them...

Kiyoomi is wearing earphones, the noise cancelling ones his older sister dropped in his lap with a knowing smile last birthday. In his ears plays a gentle torrent of white noise, the sound of callous waves crashing against rocks. With his eyes closed, lying on the uncomfortable sofa (sometimes, ambitious modern design was _not_ better) Kiyoomi tries to calm his spiraling thoughts. 

_Banish all thoughts of Miya, nobody is beyond your bedroom door. And if they were, that’s a problem for later, just breathe. Just breathe. Just. Breathe. In for four, hold for six, out for eight. Good. Don’t think of sunflowers. Not the sickly yellow of bruises or the dull yellow of eyes. In. For. Four. Hold. For. Six. Out. For. Eight. Breathe. Kiyoomi. Breathe._

He is cruel. Kiyoomi knows this to be true of his own character. His cruelty is not in the way of stupid sadists such as Smith. There was a doubtless conviction for every cruelty Kiyoomi inflicted upon the world, but it was cruelty all the same. Born of a need to control his environment, to shape that which influenced his thoughts and worse still. The creature comforts of a job well done, of being _excellent_ at something, even if it was shooting a man at point blank.

There was a reason why he had no problems adapting to the family profession, even when his older siblings had baulked and left to pursue _normal_ lives. And there was the other issue. They were born out of wedlock, with a woman his father had actually loved, unlike his father’s relationship with Kiyoomi’s own mother.

The poison was buried deep in the Sakusa blood. Selfishness, deep and all consuming. When he had been younger, he’d hated sharing his toys with Motoya. As he grew up, and truly grew to understand what being the heir to the syndicate meant, it only fed his cruelties. 

And the other curse of the Sakusa blood bloomed too. The violent, intrusive thoughts that left him itchy and restless all over. Some days, it was hard to differentiate which thoughts were conjurings of his imagination and which were just vignettes from his brutal memories. Blood was blood, regardless of how it was spilt. An odd weakness for someone of his profession to have, his mother had once mused. She had been lucky to only marry into the Sakusa curse, not to be haunted by it herself the same way Kiyoomi and his father and Motoya’s father are.

The same curse that now thrusts into his mind’s eye, images of his hand colliding with the sharp planes of Miya’s face.

An open hand would send him tumbling to the ground, fall barely broken by Miya’s hands, restrained as they are. A closed fist would leave a bruise at best, a fractured cheekbone at worst. 

He thinks of Miya’s head whipping with the impact. The sickening crunch of his knuckles meeting bone. Kiyoomi’s knuckles had broken and hardened many a time from the same action. Blood spat from Miya’s mouth, his cheek cut on his own teeth with the force of the punch. Chest heaving, grinning up at Kiyoomi with spitfire eyes, goading him. Kiyoomi would calmly walk away, the bitter anger inside him sated for now. He’d bandage his own hand, then offer a piece of gauze to dress Miya’s wounds. And then, he’d let Miya take a swing at him, maybe even let him land the hit.

But... it wouldn’t be that way.

Miya, the real one, would just kneel there and _take it._ The blood that would drip from his mouth wouldn’t be spat bitterly at Kiyoomi, but smeared around his lips; a crimson invitation. He would look up at Kiyoomi with the look of fear and resignation mixing in amber eyes and part his lips, _just right._

Kiyoomi barely makes it to the kitchen sink before he heaves, throwing up the disgustingly oil-laden foods that counted for haute cuisine in this shithole place. 

He fumbles for his gloves, the rubber ones, and tears a new cleaning cloth from the roll.

And then. He cleans. He cleans, trying to scrub out all thoughts of Miya until his mind and his room fucking gleamed. 

\------

  
  
  


He hates being called Miya. It’s stupid really. It’s his name, and doesn’t even rank in the top 5 greatest hits of degrading things he gets called on the daily. “Slut” and “whore” are always classics, with the added boon of being entirely true.

He hates being called Miya, because it reminds him of a time where he was _more_ than just Miya, when he was _Miya Atsumu,_ and people couldn’t just call him _Miya_ because then they’d get confused between him and-

He recoils violently from that line of thinking. Atsumu thought he’d long trained himself out of remembering, out of _hoping_.

_It must be the drugs,_ he thinks, making his brain all hazing and blurring the present and past. Sometimes he wishes he didn’t have memories, painful, awful things that they are...but at least they’re useful for surviving those who literally controlled his life.

He’s always been a fast learner, it only took a punishment or ten before he learnt how to drop to his knees _just right,_ how deep to take it, to cry or to be silent.

The first night was always the worst. A new owner with new desires and dislikes. Though they all boiled down to the same things, the nuances of what each wanted were dangerously different. 

Atsumu had thought that Sakusa would be a relatively simple procedure, a man with power and authority who wouldn’t hesitate to put Atsumu in his place. So he played the bratty act, shoving the fear down as far as he could as he let a cocksure smile wash over his features. Goad Sakusa a bit, let him lust for Atsumu’s blood rather than his body and then… Take a beating. Pass out from the pain. Rinse and repeat tomorrow. 

Or at least that’s what he’d planned. When Sakusa had yanked his proverbial and literal chain, he felt everything fall into place. The fear fading to a mere buzz in the background, predictable and sullen. And then. Sakusa did the most terrifying thing.

He left. He left Atsumu to stew with a thousand and one possibilities of awful things he would suffer when Sakusa returned. He _hated_ that. The ones who liked to play mind games, prolonging the torture mentally with no effort physically. The calm, cold and calculating ones were always far more terrifying than the men who gave into their basal instincts, as cruel and animalistic as they could be. Atsumu would rather be punched by a master in a rage than suffer the calculated cruelties of one who had meticulously researched which nerves would be the most painful. Fuck Smith for lending him out to that fucking sadist of a doctor. Hippocratic oath his ass.

The sounds of running water stop in the other room, mercifully pulling him out of his thoughts before the drug induced haze could pull him down and trap him in painful memories. He strains his ears to hear footsteps pace around some more, and then the unpleasantly loud snap of rubber, followed by what sounds like a rubbish can’s lid swinging open.

A few moments pass. The door clicks open. Atsumu suppresses a flinch. Just because he didn’t know how to act around his new master doesn’t mean it’ll be anything worse than what he’s already endured. Something he can thank Smith for at least, is that there’s really nowhere lower to go than rock fucking bottom. Or at least he sincerely hopes.

The silence once again vibrates in the air between them. What the fuck was up with this guy and not wanting to talk? Smith monologued like a cliched villain all the time, but at least it made him an easy read. In contrast, Sakusa’s silence made Atsumu nervous, and made him run his mouth a lot more. 

He tries to speak, but before he could get his dry mouth to form words, Sakusa’s voice violates the silence between them.

“Get on the bed Miya.”

  
Oh. _Oh shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very short chapter that I wrote on my phone on the bus. I just realised I have a huge habit of ending chapters on character dialogue haha. 
> 
> _You can find me on[Twitter](https://twitter.com/duinox)_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter specific warnings: drugged character, allusions to disassociation, non-con-ish situation at the end of chapter (a misunderstanding)
> 
> EDIT: 2/3/2020 I ORIGINALLY FORGOT TO POST A WHOLE THIRD OF THIS CHAPTER'S SCENE OMG. The next chapter will have a POV jump so I HAD TO ADD IT NOW please forgive me OTL

The familiar beat of panic in his heart sends his drug laden blood pumping through his body. He can feel his head getting foggier by the second. _It’s hard to think clearly. His thoughts are racing._

Sakusa’s silhouette dances in front of his eyes. He’s blurry. Atsumu’s eyelids feel impossibly heavy. He considers, briefly, what the punishment would be if he just succumbed to the lull of drug-laden tiredness and passed out right here on Sakusa’s floor. The very least he could do is rebel a little by making Sakusa drag him onto the bed if he wanted Atsumu there. Or Sakusa might just do away with his pretenses and have Atsumu right there, on the floor.

“Miya? Are you alright? Did you hear me?” Sakusa’s voice snaps Atsumu’s wandering mind to attention. He hopes his internal rebellions aren’t showing on his face, but he had never been the best at controlling his responses when he was like...this

It was why so many men had loved him in this state. They’d say he was more _honest_ in his responses.

And _fuck_ if he was going to give Sakusa any kind of honesty, not this easily. Not without a fight.

Atsumu wriggles onto his hands and knees. His hands, still cuffed as they are, should have made his movements far more stilted and awkward than they were, and he feels sick with the realisation that he’s gotten good at this. At crawling seductively with his hands bound. How fucked up a skill was that. Miya Atsumu, pretty whore extraordinaire. 

He huffs a private, self deprecating laugh. Looks like they’d never managed to beat the pride out of him, just molded it to their own desires.

He barely makes it a few paces towards the bed before Sakusa’s dark gaze lifts from his phone. Sakusa regards Atsumu with a small, but growing frown. 

“Why are you doing that? Get up.” Sakusa says, rising from where he had lounged on the bed.

Crossing the distance between them in two long strides, Atsumu finds himself gazing up at Sakusa before remembering to slam his gaze back to the floor. Sakusa was looming over him, again, but it hadn’t sunk in for Atsumu until now how truly tall and _intimidating_ Sakusa was. He would be easily 190cm, broad shoulders filling out his white button up shirt in a way that Atsumu was sure he would have found attractive if not for the fact that big, powerful men were never, ever good news for him. 

Sakusa could hurt him badly, even if he was stupid and fought back. The thought makes him tense, ready for violence he was sure Sakusa would inflict. He’d done something to piss him off. Maybe Sakusa had gotten impatient waiting for Atsumu to fumble his way to the bed. Maybe he’d start the punishment for how Atsumu had goaded him into earlier.

With these thoughts whirring through his head, he can’t help the sudden, violent flinch that sparks through his body when Sakusa grabs under his arms. The flinch twists him out of Sakusa’s grip, who drops him with a surprised “oof”.

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll be good.” Atsumu babbles. What was up with him today, that he couldn’t take a little manhandling?

He hears Sakusa’s pinched, exasperated sigh.

“Just. Get the fuck up.” Sakusa says, turning heel to sit back down on the bed. He cradles his head in his hands, hiding his face.

Atsumu hurries to comply, rising to his feet. He winces when the cuts on his feet stick bloody to the carpet. Fuck. There’d be retaliation for that too, for dirtying his master’s property.

“Are you up?” Sakusa’s voice is tired, muffled.

“Yes master.” Atsumu replies meekly. He might be able to salvage the situation if he put on the good toy act. Polite, obedient, eager. He hated becoming this, but he’d rather take some blows to his pride than his body.

Sakusa whips to glare at him with an intensity that has Atsumu’s fight or flight kicking into overdrive. He was so fucking tired of getting this _wrong. Wrong wrong wrong._ Why did he keep going _wrong_ and making Sakusa angry? It was like he was begging to be beaten, used and abused now.

But before he can form the silken words for an apology, Sakusa speaks, tense. “Don’t call me that.”

“Yes sir sorry sir.” Atsumu chimes. “Do you have something else yew’d rather I address ya by, sir?” 

God. He hopes Sakusa wasn’t the _daddy_ type. 

“You know my name don’t you? Call me that.”

“Yes Sakusa-sama.”

“The honorific isn’t necessary. Sakusa-san is fine.”

He stiffens. Did Sakusa think him stupid? While Atsumu might rebel in his mind and drop any pretense of _honoring Sakusa sama,_ he wasn’t an idiot. Even the Sakusa syndicate members would call him Sakusa-sama. It was already too much for Atsumu to be put on equal footing with them. Sakusa-san would be overfamiliar at best, a trap at worst.

But still. He couldn’t go against a direct order. He’s screwed either way. 

“...yes, Sakusa s-s-an” he forces out through gritted teeth. God fucking damn it. One little honorific in his native language and he’s tremoring like a leaf.

Sakusa sighs again, his impatient sigh.

“...Since we don’t know each other’s ages it wouldn’t be inappropriate for you to call me -san. But Sakusa-sama is also acceptable. Now. Miya. Please. Walk to the bed. Come sit with me. Whatever you’re agonising over, I can almost assure you it will not come to pass.” 

“I don’t believe you...Sakusa-sama” Atsumu blurts out. He freezes. Maybe he was actually stupid, it would explain a hell of a lot. Deliberately provoking his master was one thing, accidentally insulting him was another. He was spiraling out of control. He _hated_ these drugs.

“I’d be surprised if you did.” Sakusa grimaces, and it takes Atsumu’s slowed brain a few seconds to realise that it was Sakusa’s attempt at a _smile._

Atsumu finds himself sitting on the bed, his body having moved before his brain had realised what had happened. He waits, fisting his hands into the soft sheets to hide their tremors, and tries not to wonder how long it'll be before he's being fucked into them instead.

Judging by how Sakusa’s weight shifts on the bed, coming towards him, it wouldn’t be long. Atsumu probably has ten minutes, maybe less, before the drugs in his blood make his world all soft and woozy. It always made him feel distant, like it was someone else’s body being used, not his.

If he draws out these ten minutes, he wouldn’t have to feel Sakusa fucking him at all. Or he would feel Sakusa fucking him, but it wouldn’t _feel_ like it was happening to him. Yeah. That would be good.

Now how? How does he distract Sakusa for 10 minutes? He could-He could. No. That was too risky. Or was it? If it was going to happen to him anyway why not on his terms?

Sakusa scoots on the bed towards him. He is saying something, voice a low murmur, but Atsumu cannot parse out the words. It is too foggy in his head. Sakusa is finally close enough, so close that if Atsumu wanted to, he could rest his tired head against Sakusa’s chest.

Instead, he quickly loops his cuffed hands around Sakusa’s head, flopping gracelessly onto his back and sending them both hurtling towards the mattress. Sakusa’s dark, dark eyes widen in surprise as he tries to avoids his weight landing on Atsumu. Sakusa’s eyes are angry now. Confused too. 

Atsumu has to do this before the fear, pooling in his gut as it was now, sends him fleeing. He drags himself up by where his hands are, still behind Sakusa’s head and-

Kisses him.

Sakusa ducks out of the kiss, quick and clinical. Atsumu’s hands slip, falling to bed where Sakusa promptly slams one hand to pin both of Atsumu’s above his head.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

A brief moment of clarity washes over Atsumu. One of Sakusa’s hands pins the chain links of his handcuffs to the bed, immobilising him effectively even if the drugs hadn’t made him weak as a kitten.. Sakusa’s knees are heavy weights where they’re pressing Atsumu’s legs open. Sakusa’s face is close to Atsumu’s and…

He looks furious.

Atsumu whimpers involuntarily, tearing his glare away from Sakusa’s, not caring that it now left him baring his neck submissively to the man above him. 

It was true after all. He needed to submit to survive. Every instinct is screaming at him to curl up in a ball, to protect himself. Instead, he spreads his legs a little. Tries to peer up at Sakusa through now-tear stained eyelashes, like a _good whore._ The tears made him prettier. He’d been told.

God. He really was an idiot for thinking he could stall a ruthless yakuza boss with a _kiss._

Anything that happened to him now, it would be his own fault for inviting it. And so he waits. He waits for Sakusa to take what’s his.

He looks away, choosing instead to hide his face and control his breathing. Stay still and quiet, do whatever his Master wanted. Survive survive  _ survive. _

He had no doubts about what would happen now. Sakusa’s weight, pinning his legs open. Sakusa’s face was sure to be clouded over with anger, anger that he would take out on Atsumu. Afterall, why wouldn’t he? Atsumu had been here time, and time again, a revolving door of masters, but he was always in the same position. Trapped, vulnerable and so so afraid and desperate to not show it. Despite everything, the same stubborn pride that screamed at him to keep some part of himself safe from all the cruelties he’d endure.

Long seconds pass. Or was it minutes? He was starting to lose his sense of time, these stupid fucking drugs. Sakusa is still looming over him, the sound of his breaths weighing heavy in the otherwise unbroken stillness.

And then suddenly, Sakusa’s weight is shifting off him. Atsumu hears a loud groan and the **smack** of flesh meeting flesh. He flinches, waiting for the pain to bloom somewhere on his body.

It doesn’t. Confused, he finally looks up at Sakusa. His drugged gaze takes a few seconds to focus, but when it does, it presents him with a confusing scene.

Sakusa is sitting on the very edge of the mattress, as far away from Atsumu as possible. He has his head in his hands, hiding his face. Blood blossomed red is visible on his high, fine cheekbones. 

_ He’d slapped his  _ **_own_ ** _ face.  _ Atsumu realises, and it makes no sense at all.  _ Terrifying _ .

“This is a bad idea.” Sakusa says, voice softened by his hands covering his face.

Atsumu doesn’t know if Sakusa is talking to him. It wasn’t a direct order, so it was best to stay silent.

“This is a very bad idea,” Sakusa repeats to himself. “I’m going to throttle Komori.” He adds, seemingly as an afterthought.

Atsumu stays silent, not moving a muscle lest Sakusa come to his senses, and decide to resume taking Atsumu as rightfully his.

“You.” Sakusa finally directs his attention to Atsumu. If Atsumu hadn’t been so dedicated to picture perfect stillness, he surely would’ve flinched yet  _ again _ . “You are a menace.”

Not exactly what he expected or wanted to hear, but at least it wasn’t a  _ spread your legs whore  _ or a  _ you look so pretty when you’re choking on my cock. _

__

“I’m sorry?” Atsumu tries, the words familiar yet altogether foreign on his tongue. He’s used to not knowing what he was apologising for, but the melodramatic and jovial tone in Sakusa’s voice had thrown him off.

A light laugh filters to Atsumu’s ears.  _ Sakusa is laughing,  _ and it is odd how it doesn’t immediately fill him with dread.  _ It must be the drugs messing his brain up. _

“Good.” Sakusa mutters, with no real malice in it. He takes a deep sigh, rubbing at his eyes. “Listen, I’m tired. You’re tired. I have no intention of either one of use sleeping on the floor, and the sofa out in the other room is too damn ornate and the leather will stick to you like an absolute bastard so, we’re going to sleep. And we’re going to sleep together in this bed.”

It was a relief to be honest, if Atsumu was being honest with the parts of himself that didn’t burn with battered pride. That he wouldn’t be used and tossed aside to sleep on the cold floor. Small mercies yet again.

“…But,” Sakusa continues, “We’re sleeping together. Not _sleeping_ _together_.” Sakusa is gesturing now with bunny ears. Oh. They were air quotes. A euphemism?

“Isn’t it all the same?” Atsumu hears himself say, his own voice sounding distant even to himself. His mind is falling deeper and deeper into the alluring haze of the drugs, softening all the sharp blows. He wouldn’t mind now, if Sakusa did…He wouldn’t mind. Not when the edges of the world were being pleasantly dulled.

Sakusa grimaces, deliberately this time, not another attempt at a smile.

“It’s not the same Miya. All we’re going to do is get some rest.”

There was no point in arguing, there was no point in trying to understand what Sakusa was even saying. Atsumu just nods, agrees like he’s expected to. Just as he’s blinking in and out of consciousness, he sees Sakusa smile, a real human’s smile, something soft and private and despondently sad.

How weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long! a few things will change with this story. I had a vague plot for it, but now I realised that was me making too much pressure for myself so now this will be basically self indulgent hurt/comfort. Also, now that this is more self indulgent, it'll be easier for me to write more (yay!) updates will be so sporadic. Sorry already. I'm the worst with WIPs


End file.
